Cupid for Hire

by Lila Monroe

  * * *

  In the end, Dylan places a very respectable third.

  “I told you, I’ve got moves, baby!”

  We stumble out of the bar at 2 a.m., both of us more than a little drunk—on dance-party adrenaline and those delicious two-for-one margaritas.

  “What do you think? Should I quit it all and go on one of those TV dance shows?” Dylan starts moonwalking on the sidewalk—and promptly trips over his shoelaces.

  I splutter with laughter. “Real smooth, criminal!”

  “What about you?” Dylan demands. He snaps his fingers and holds out a hand to me. “I saw your moves in there.”

  I take his hand, and he pulls me in to a surprisingly coordinated slow dance, right there in the middle of the empty sidewalk. “Dylan!” I protest, laughing. “What are you doing?”

  “C’mon, I thought you’d be all over this,” he insists, spinning me around as he hums “The Best is Yet to Come.” “Now, old Blue Eyes knew about romance. Why aren’t you using him to make the ladies melt?”

  “Because sadly, most ladies don’t know their Sinatra from their Solange,” I reply, enjoying the blue of streetlights and neon from the city around us. “The ladies you choose, anyway.”

  “She wounds me!”

  Dylan spins me again, and then pulls me back into his arms. I find myself pressed up against his chest, so close, I can feel the heat of his body radiating through his damp shirt.

  Oh.

  I gulp. Is this just the tequila talking, or are his eyes bluer than I remember? Bluer? Blueish? Is that even a word?

  “You’ve gone quiet,” Dylan notes, still swaying me in his arms.

  “Nope!” I blurt, my cheeks flushing.

  “Yup.” Dylan grins down at me. “You’re dangerous when you’re quiet. It means you’re planning something.”

  I shake my head—but I don’t pull away. Because it feels good right here in his arms. His strong arms looped around me . . . That rock-hard torso pressed against my chest . . .

  What are you thinking? a voice inside me demands. This is Dylan!

  Dylan, whose girlfriends expire before a quart of milk.

  Dylan, who is the walking definition of “heartbreak.”

  Dylan, who just saved me from a shitty date without question, and made me laugh, and did the robot in front of a rowdy bar without complaint . . .

  Dammit.

  He smiles down at me, and I can’t stop myself from leaning closer. For support, obviously, since I’m unsteady on my feet. And when his hands slide tighter around my back, it’s clearly to help keep my balance.

  And when his mouth lowers to kiss me, it’s because . . .

  It’s because . . .

  Fuck it.

  I kiss him back, blood running hot in my veins. Damn, it feels good, his hands on my body and his tongue doing wicked things in my mouth. I cling to him, running my hands over that damp chest, head spinning from the sudden rush of endorphins taking over, because damn, this man can kiss.

  We come up for air, gasping. Dylan looks around, and hallelujah, there’s a cab passing with the light on. Dylan flags it down, and then we tumble into the backseat, already kissing and grabbing at each other again. “My place or yours?” he asks hoarsely, tugging me back against him again, seatbelts be damned.

  He expects me to make a decision at a time like this?

  “I’m closer.” I manage to give the driver my address, before turning back to Dylan and kissing him hard all over again.

  Am I drunk? Yes.

  Is this the best idea I’ve ever had in my entire life?

  Hell yes!

  Dylan dips his head and kisses along my neck, and I shudder. His hands are roving all over my body, and you can bet I’m returning the favor, because mmmmm, this guy has abs for days. We make out like we’re teenagers again, breathless and sweaty and aching for more. At least, I am, because the way he touches me… I’m pretty much ready to explode by the time the cab pulls up outside my building and I tumble out, trying not to fall on my ass in my hurry to drag Dylan upstairs.

  Except… He doesn’t follow.

  I turn back. Dylan is standing on the sidewalk with a conflicted look on his face. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this…” he begins, dragging one hand through the hair I just messed up.

  My stomach lurches. “So don’t.”

  I tug his hand. Dylan exhales, then steps back. “I shouldn’t come up.”

  What?

  According to the heat between my thighs, he most definitely should.

  “We’re drunk,” Dylan continues.

  “I’m not!” I protest – and then promptly trip over the curb and nearly face-plant right on the concrete, if Dylan wasn’t there to grab me, and hold me upright. “Well, only a little,” I concede. “A teensy bit. This much.” I hold my thumb and forefinger so they’re touching.

  He grins, devastating as ever. “Enough. For you to regret this, anyway. And for me to feel like an ass in the morning.”

  He’s serious. The biggest manwhore in the city is choosing not to come ravish me, even though I’m ready to take off all my clothes and cry, ‘take me now’ right in the middle of the street.

  You have got to be kidding me!

  “Oh.” I gulp, feeling a wave of embarrassment. Or maybe that’s the tequila, about to rear its ugly head on the return journey. Either way, I have zero interest in standing here a moment longer. “Sure! You’re right. I mean, obviously. This was… Whatever it was. Umm…”

  “Fun. Tonight was fun.” Dylan smiles at me softly. “Goodnight, Poppy. I’m glad we’re friends.”

  Friends.

  Friends you don’t get naked with and enjoy wild orgasms.

  Friends who are about thirty seconds away from puking all over their shoes.

  OK, maybe he does have a point.

  I sigh. My burning loins have been foiled again, but he’s right. This would have been a bad idea.

  Sexy and wild, yes. Sensible? Nope.

  I smile back at him. “’Night, friend,” I say, turning to head inside.

  Dylan’s voice follows me up the steps. “Remember: water and aspirin.”

  I wave behind me. And then go pass out.

  8

  Dylan

  I deserve a medal for this. A parade. A statue erected in my honor.

  And, yes, “erect” is the right word, based on the long cold shower I had to take when I got back to my apartment—alone.

  I wake the next morning with a headache . . . and the sinking feeling I might have fucked everything up with Poppy. Because even though I managed to do the chivalrous thing in the end—despite every bone in my body telling me otherwise, one bone in particular—I actually like the woman. She’s smart and funny, and sure, she’s irritatingly fixated on the idea of true love, but she doesn’t take my bullshit—and that’s a quality that’s hard to find. I actually think we could be friends now, and I don’t want to have jeopardized that friendship over a late-night makeout session, no matter how hot that makeout was.

  Hot, sexy, and amazing . . .

  I groan into my pillow. Something tells me I’m going to need another cold shower.

  * * *

  Showered, dressed, and vaguely human again, I head over to Poppy’s neighborhood, stopping to pick up a couple of coffees and some hangover bagels. Usually, I give my drunken flings a cooling-off period so they get the message, but this time, I find myself wondering if I should be greeting Poppy with an apology . . .

  Or an invitation to do it again.

  Would it really be such a bad idea? Clearly, we have enough chemistry to power a small city, and sure, I’m not exactly Mr. Monogamy, but who’s to say Poppy isn’t looking to shake things up and just have some fun? They call it “friends with benefits” for a reason, and I can think of plenty of reasons not to slam the door on any romantic possibilities too soon.

  Reasons like the way she looked in the streetlights, her face all flushed and sexy.

  A
nd how she tasted, like sugar and salt all in one.

  And that breathy little moan she made when I kissed her neck . . .

  I’m so busy replaying last night over again, I nearly walk straight into a streetlight. I recover, trying to pull it together, but I can’t shake the thought now, not when it’s tempting me with XXX-rated activities in my mind.

  I’m pretty certain if we took things further, it would be spectacular.

  I push open the door to Poppy’s building and head upstairs with a spring in my step. What is it they say: In vino veritas? If there’s truth in wine, then I’m sure there must be a nugget of sense in tequila and whiskey . . . Because making out with Poppy seems like the most sensible decision I’ve made in years. And something tells me I would have been kissing her there in the middle of the street even if we both hadn’t been drunk last night.

  “You guys! I couldn’t help myself. He was singing Sinatra. How was I supposed to resist? I got carried away!”

  When I reach Poppy’s floor, I can already hear her voice from down the hall. I smile. The door to her apartment is ajar, and clearly, she’s filling in her roommates on what happened last night. I should probably knock and announce my presence, but what the hell—I’ve always been a sucker for a good review.

  “Just how carried away did you get?” one of her friend’s voices comes, laughing.

  “Past second, and well on the way to third,” Poppy replies. “I’m telling you, if the cab ride had been longer, I would be looking at a public indecency charge right about now.”

  I have to stifle a laugh. She’s not wrong there.

  “But this is Dylan!” another friend reminds her.

  Poppy groans. “I know. It was crazy. A moment of madness. Because, come on. The guy’s such a manwhore, he’s probably already in bed with the girl who served him his morning muffin.”

  My smile slips.

  “So is he getting his hands on your muffins again?”

  “No,” Poppy replies, then repeats it, strong. “Nope! I mean, I can’t . . . Can I? I’m looking for a real relationship, not a guy who thinks it’s not cheating if it happens in a different area code.”

  They all laugh . . . and I stand there, feeling weirdly disappointed. I mean, I know my reputation—and I know I deserve it. But somehow, hearing it from Poppy like this feels different.

  “Chalk it up to experience,” her friend advises her. “A guy like that is only going to break your heart.”

  “You’re right,” Poppy agrees. “Dylan is the opposite of the guy I’m looking for. He’s a very, very bad idea. But damn, it was fun while it lasted!”

  Message received, loud and clear.

  I pull my shit together and make a noise approaching. “Knock, knock,” I call loudly, tapping on the door. “I hope you’re decent in there.”

  Poppy flings the door open, looking flustered . . . and adorably hot, in a pair of cartoon pajama shorts and a belly-skimming T-shirt. “Dylan!” she exclaims. “Um, hi. What are you doing here?”

  “Delivering caffeine,” I say, presenting her with her coffee cup—and a smile. “I figured I’m not the only one who might be nursing a hangover.”

  “Seriously!” Poppy agrees. “Come on in,” she says, stepping aside. “And thank you. My head is killing me!”

  “This should help.” I produce the everything bagels, and Poppy falls on them with rapturous delight. ”I love you!” she cries through a mouthful of poppy seeds, as her friends greet me with assessing looks.

  “Ladies,” I smile back. “Dig in. I brought plenty.”

  “That’s OK.” They exchange glances. “We were just going to . . . do laundry.”

  They exit pronto, leaving Poppy still inhaling those bagels. I shouldn’t be surprised after the hot-dog incident last night, but still, it’s amusing to watch her attack the carbs. Finally, she comes up for air. “I needed that. Next time we get drunk, breakfast is on me.”

  I exhale, relieved. So, there will be a next time. And despite the blow to my pride that she’s not swooning at my feet, a bigger part of me is relieved I didn’t fuck things up completely with her.

  Good friends are rare. Good friends who can shove you on stage at a gay bar and get you to make a fool of yourself in front of two hundred people are gold dust, in my book.

  Which means she deserves an apology.

  “Look, about last night . . .” I begin, feeling awkward. How exactly do you apologize for groping someone in the back of a cab? I decide to go for a straightforward: “I’m sorry.”

  “You are?” Poppy blinks, looking surprised. She probably figured I do this all the time, but I want to clear the air.

  “I mean, we both had too much to drink and did things we’re probably not proud of.” I flash a smile. “But I’m sorry if I crossed a line.”

  “No!” she blurts. “You were the perfect gentleman. I was the one who mauled you all the way down 8th street.”

  I laugh. “I think we both did the mauling. But I want you to know it won’t happen again.”

  There’s a tiny pause, and I figure Poppy’s just surprised to get an apology—seeing as she thinks I’m such an irredeemable manwhore. “Deal,” she finally agrees. “In fact, let’s pretend it never happened.”

  “Which part?” I ask, teasing. “Because if you think I’m letting you off the hook for that dance contest dare, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  Poppy nods and gives me a relieved-looking smile. “Deal.” There’s a pause. She looks down at herself and seems to realize she’s barely dressed. “I, um, should go shower . . .”

  I get a flash of Poppy under the suds: hot, wet, naked . . .

  I gulp. What was that I was saying about being just friends? “I better get going, too,” I say, before I can screw this up all over again.

  “Places to go, women to charm?” Poppy asks with a grin.

  “You know me.” I give an easy shrug. “No rest for the wicked.”

  * * *

  I head out, glad at least that I haven’t fucked things up with Poppy . . . yet. And despite what she thinks about my playboy lifestyle, I have plenty of work on my plate with the Catskills opening. A few last-minute hires to approve, a meeting with the marketing firm, not to mention some interviews . . . I’m happy to use my public profile if it gets extra attention for the Griffin hotels.

  I’m just ordering a car uptown when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check the caller ID.

  Jasmine.

  I snatch my phone up and answer in a rush. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual. “What’s up?”

  “Dylan, hi. Is this a bad time?”

  “Nope!” I insist, my pulse kicking up a notch. Jesus, look at me, getting nervous because a girl called. It feels like I’m in high school all over again. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was thinking about your invitation . . .” Jasmine says. “Things are crazy for me right now, but I realized I need more balance in my life. Some time in nature sounds perfect. I’d love to come up for the hotel opening—if you’d still like me to.”

  “Yes!” I exclaim quickly, then walk it back. “I mean, sure, that sounds great.”

  “Really? That’s great. And then we’ll have a chance to catch up,” Jasmine adds.

  I pump my fist in the air. Hell yes!

  “I’ll be pretty busy with the hotel,” I say casually. “But I’m sure we can find some time to have dinner. I’ll have my assistant send you all the details.”

  “I can’t wait,” Jasmine replies.

  I hang up, feeling on top of the world again. It’s got to be a sign. Last night was a mistake. A wild, fun, sexy mistake, but Poppy said it herself: I’m not the guy for her.

  And maybe, Jasmine is the one for me, after all.

  I guess we’ll find out next week.

  I stop, suddenly realizing there’s still a major hitch in my plan. Because if my last couple of interactions with Jasmine are anything to go by, I’m still a long way from sweeping her off her feet.
>
  In fact, I’d be amazed if I even manage to get a complete sentence out face-to-face.

  Damn. I need help, big time.

  And there’s only one woman I trust enough to ask.

  Let’s just hope when Poppy said, “Let’s forget it ever happened,” she meant it, because otherwise, I’m shit out of luck.

  9

  Poppy

  “I did the right thing . . . Didn’t I? Tell me I did the right thing.”

  Natalie laughs. “You did the right thing.”

  It’s later on Saturday morning and I’m lazing in the sun in Central Park. At least, I’m lazing (and angsting), while Natalie waits with her cellphone, ready to pounce on unsuspecting passers-by and interview them for the “word on the street” feature for the Daily News.

  “I know,” I agree, with a sigh. Sure, a small part of me had been hoping we would pick up right where we left off, but that hope died right about the time Dylan awkwardly told me that our passionate escapade was one big mistake.

  He’s right, of course, but still . . .

  “He’s just so hot.” I remember Dylan’s bedroom eyes. And his lips . . . And what he did with his lips . . . “I mean, did you see him this morning? Fresh as a damn daisy, and meanwhile I’ve got bags under my eyes so big, the airline would make me check them. And I know for a fact he drank just as much as me. If not more!”

  “Poppy, you’re a lightweight!” Natalie exclaims. “Last time we went out, you drank half a bottle of rosé and started quoting Byron in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “True. But is it weird of me to feel . . . I don’t know, kind of rejected?” I ask, trying to figure out how I feel about this. “Obviously, sleeping with him would have been a terrible idea . . .”

  “Obviously.” Natalie smirks.

  “ . . . but the guy is an irredeemable playboy!” I exclaim. “What does it say about me that I don’t even measure up to his standards?”

  I mean, I’m all for chivalry, but was he really saying goodnight last night because I was too drunk to make a sound decision . . . or because I’m not exactly in the running to join the Victoria’s Secret Angel squad?